


Drink From the Devil's Cup

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Coffee, F/F, One Shot, late season 2/early season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-31 20:49:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13983072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Invited for coffee, Vera enters the Devil's home.





	Drink From the Devil's Cup

**Author's Note:**

> I recalled the scene where Joan gives Fletch coffee at rehab. My love for coffee shamelessly kindled this. Not surprisingly, I'm drinking it now. I wanted to write a scene that dwells on the aftermath of Rita's "passing." It's one of my favorite elements to deconstruct.

It’s an honor to be welcomed into the Devil’s den.

After the toils of the night shift, she accepts the Governor’s – _Joan's_ – generous hospitality. There’s bruising beneath the eyes that never existed before. Awkwardly, Miss Bennett lingers on the front porch, her arms lax by her side. She sinks her teeth into her cheek rather than her bottom lip. Exhaustion eats away at her heart-shaped face. How demanding this life is.

Contrary to what staff and the inmates call her, Vera can't bring herself to believe that Joan is terrible. She cares, doesn't she? Why else would she be here?

At the thought, her brow furrows.

This righteous act demands an element of trust. In bits and pieces, Joan feeds it to her.

“You look like you had a rough day,” Governor Ferguson remarks. Cool condescension oozes from a fair-weather friend. A meticulous brow rises.

_Are you up for challenge?_

The question doesn't reach her stoic expression. She shuts it down. Instead, Joan steps aside. Grants the mouse entry to her immaculate home. It's a timed danced in which Joan leads and Vera follows.

“I can handle it,” her sworn right-hand answers. It comes out rushed and empty, as if to say _I can't._

Despite her new look, her soft heart's wilting.

“Have a seat. Make yourself at home.”

Joan gestures towards her den, bleak and empty, the ultimate indication of nothingness. It's an empty home for an empty soul.

Outside of Wentworth, outside of prison, it's strange to see Joan in various stages of her uniform. The blazer's off, undoubtedly freshly pressed and hanging in her wardrobe. Her polished heels rest in the foyer, neatly pressed together. The younger woman follows suit. She mirrors what she's been taught and sold.

Vera makes no other comments. Her chest squeezes. Guilt turns anyone into a fool. Her bleary, weary gaze stares down the corridor. Somehow, Wentworth feels more open. Being here feels like a Midas maze. She sucks the air in between her teeth, Keeps her head high rather than bowed down low.

This signals the becoming of someone new.

Though she’s no good at this, Vera holds it all in. She sits on the arm rest of the leather chair rather than the plush cushion. Her legs cross one over the other. The work appropriate wool skirt drifts upward, exposing more of her nylons. Her knees show. Like Saint Sebastian, she’s bound for martyrdom.

Despite the frizz, her hair’s pulled tight against her scalp into a newly formed bun. The bobby pins bite. Pain is a constant. Her eyes wander to the window where the ashen sky looms.

“How do you take it?”

The smoke of the Governor's voice slips out of the kitchen. As enticing as that husky tenor is, Vera nearly chokes on the sound. It's foolish to want more, to make something out of nothing.

Jesus offers a bout of kindness to Judas. That's it.

“I'm sorry?”

“Your coffee,” Joan calmly says.

She asks for milk and sugar, bland and sweet. It speaks to her character. How she used to be a shit kicker at the bottom of the ropes. How she still is.

“Consider it a good will gesture.”

The Governor returns with two white cups and matching saucers. Vera notices her manicured French tip. A silly observation, but one that brings a blush to her cheeks all the same.

“Thank you.”

Subdued, she exerts humility. The mouse dips her head to which Joan nods in silent acknowledgment.

She smiles into her coffee. Offers a careful, little shrug.

“How are you?” These things are difficult for her to ask. She means it. She thinks she does.

Empathy died the day her Jianna did.

It’s all essential. Joan finds it necessary to ask – to test the fragility of Vera's mind. Ever so subtly, she cranes her neck. She observes.

A long, pensive pause follows.

Had she said the wrong thing?

Demurely, the good deputy crosses her legs at her ankles. She grips the handle. Her thumb traces the porcelain rim. In endless circles, she wanders. She folds and uncrosses her legs. A razorblade stare devours. Joan studies this exposure.

After Mum's passing, she experienced a change. She’s not herself. Vera - this new version - wonders if she has ever _been_ herself.

Better to rob Peter than to pay Paul.

“No worse for wear, Guv’na.”

The trembling of her hand betrays the poetry in her dull, blue eyes. She should feel horrible for the terrible things she's done... And yet, there was a profound liberation.

After standing for so long, Joan takes a seat in the same armchair that her disciple rests upon. The act intends to foster loyalty. She undoes the top button of her collar. For such a small body, Vera generates a furnace's worth in heat, but the slight move is a deliberate one. Joan bares her throat, but not her heart.

“Sometimes, it’s best to be pragmatic, Vera. As a measure of good faith, you acted accordingly.”

When she tastes her coffee, black and acidic, she purses her nude lips. This time around, Vera doesn't mirror her mentor. She stares at the murky cloud in her cup.

To keep her tethered – irrevocably bound – Joan reaches out. She squeezes her deputy's bicep, still swathed in the uniform. It's a fleeting touch that doesn't linger like the coveted caresses hidden in the prison's shadows.

She should have rested her hand upon her deputy's knee. Her hand curls. Fingers sink into her palm. She sits like an Old Testament queen though her glittering, obsidian stare drinks in Vera's profile.

“Drink your coffee before it gets cold.”

The Governor gestures with her handsome, well-defined hands.

Another command becomes easy to follow and easier to swallow. Ambition's numbed her. Vera wets her bottom lip. Going down, it leaves her lukewarm.

 


End file.
